


Tact

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, Awesome Molly Hooper, F/M, M/M, Minor Meltdowns, Multi, Mycroft is Touchy, Panic Attacks, Sensory Overload, but also hypersensitive, internalized ableism, sensory processing disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt: Pained</strong><br/>His need to avoid touch was made all the more unfortunate by the fact that when he enjoyed it, he <em>really</em> did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparkle_Free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/gifts).



> This happens close after chapter 6 of _Happiness Shared_ , but I think it can stand alone.
> 
> I am covered in skin  
> No one gets to come in  
> Pull me out from inside  
> I am folded and unfolded and unfolding  
> I am colorblind  
> "Colorblind"-Counting Crows

Mycroft had a strange relationship with his own skin.

To begin with, there were irritants. Textiles of the wrong sort were maddeningly uncomfortable; it had taken years of trial-and-error before he had developed a reliable list of what was acceptable, what was merely tolerable, and what was neither. He had woken himself up itching because of the weave of his pillowcase often enough that his parents had taken him to be tested for allergies, and been baffled by the lack of positives. Nevertheless, it remained a helpful excuse to claim when his work required hotel stays and the suddenness of a trip precluded packing his own bedding. A good portion of the reason he wore bespoke suits was the ability to control every aspect of his attire, and by now his tailor had memorised his list of requirements: French seams that kept all tickly edges safely tucked away, no tags or marks of any sort, this fabric or this but never that. He had alerted one Savile Row shop owner to the dishonest practices of her cloth merchant simply by putting on a shirt and having to immediately remove it again. He was well known for his exacting standards. Loose threads were untenable on multiple levels (he'd had to break from a critical meeting once to disrobe in the loo and remove a nuisance), but cufflinks and interesting buttons gave him something appropriate to twiddle within easy reach, such that most people never noticed the behavior.

Hair was less of a problem now than it had been it his youth, and that was probably because he'd been steadily inured to its constant presence. It remained an issue only where it brushed his ears, and that was solved by a regular clipping. Oddly, even that wasn’t so bad if it was someone else's hair, but then his comfort with other people changed with such violent regularity that he’d passed it up entirely whenever possible.

His need to avoid touch was made all the more unfortunate by the fact that when he enjoyed it, he _really_ did. The trouble was pressure. It had taken time and the patience of his ordinarily disinterested elder brother before he was confident with it on his end. Archery had been the only interest Mycroft had shared with the more rambunctious Sherrinford (even their personal libraries were too contrasting to find a common ground) and the older boy had used the sensitive bow string as way of explaining to five-year-old Mycroft why hugging as hard as he could might not always be the best idea when he got bigger.

Indeed, as he aged, contact became suddenly tinged with new meanings and physical interactions required special algorithms for interpretation. Mycroft couldn’t predict with any certainty what sensations he would register where his flesh met another’s; though he catalogued as many experiences as he could, the other person was an unknown factor which changed the entire equation. For the sake of being straightforward, he did his best to keep sex casual and as much like a contract as possible. If it turned unpleasant, there were no confusing emotional implications to wrangle. He could call it off and no harm done. Until Gregory Lestrade. Greg was able to take (what Mycroft considered) the barest instruction and extrapolate accurately, so that Mycroft was perfectly happy with proceedings and prepared to reciprocate with an eagerness that would surprise him on later reflection when they were apart. He could never quite bring himself to walk away from the inspector, but in the end, he hadn’t needed to.

They had Molly Hooper to thank for sorting them out, and she was another matter. Though she was intensely intuitive, he saw that at some point it must have faded to background chatter for her. (He envied her that.) Still, when they had their issue, it didn’t take her long to catch on, much to his dismay. Without warning, what had felt rather lovely a second past went just a shade beyond _too much_. It was all he could do not to shout and curl in on himself. While he was practiced enough to stave off jerking away, he could not stop his muscles from tensing in response to the suddenly excruciating light caress. Molly noticed, and froze. When she looked up to see his pained wince, eyes shiny and teeth gritting, she did what he had not and jumped back. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, confused and concerned. He had no idea how to respond. At that moment, he could scarcely recall speech. “What do you need?” she tried again.

Through the howling in his mind, he made his tongue work, though his words were decidedly unhelpful. “I don’t _know_.” Now that his brain was trying to blink back online, he had the awareness to cringe _at_ his reaction as well as from it. He sat with the solid part of the headboard pressing against the knobs of his spine between his hunched shoulders. Mycroft could hear the whimper on the back of his breath and realised to his utter disgust that he was beginning to tremble like a frightened child. _This is the part where she leaves_ , he thought.

Her next question confirmed this. “Do you want me to go?” Shame had pilfered his voice, but he managed to express his denial with the tightest of head shakes. When this fell apart- when he ruined it- it wouldn’t be from a lack of effort put in.

“Okay! Um,” she was kneeling beside him, hands still outstretched like she meant to soothe the air around him. “I’m going to step away for a moment, can you count your heartbeats until I get back?” She gestured with her first two fingers to her throat, and he obeyed. He focused on the pounding of his blood beneath the soft stubbled skin behind his jawbone, and felt it slow almost immediately after he turned his attention to it. _One-two, three... four… five…_ Molly slid off of his raised bed and dashed out, returning as he reached nineteen with a wet cloth and a cup of water she’d drawn from the bathroom tap. She let him sip before murmuring, her tone serious, “Mycroft, may I touch you?”

“...Maybe.”

She nodded at his honesty, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “What if,” she hesitated, then held the rag near his forehead and waited. He leaned into the cool dampness, and relaxed as they worked through the aftermath. Long minutes later, she tested the waters with a smile, and he floated it back to her. “Anything,” she said, and it was one part question and three parts promise.

He stopped himself before he got his mouth open, but she saw (of course) and waved him on encouragingly. “Would you,” he started, and he moved slowly to lay flat. He held his arms out for her to slide between, and she gave him a kind gaze.

“I think I’m too heavy to be a blanket,” Molly warned. When he disagreed, she gently tucked herself over and around him.

“Tighter,” he whispered, insistent. She giggled into his chest and squeezed until her body thrummed with tension and his own eased. She matched his outer calm, and he borrowed her inner peace. They fell asleep that way, feeding each other’s steady stillness. He’d been right: her weight was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was pretty hard to write, I suspect I may have swallowed the prompt sideways. Whew.  
> The song in the notes is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0s7ycdUcHk), and it's gorgeous and rending. It's also on the [playlist for the shorts](http://8tracks.com/amythe3lder/snips).


End file.
